


In vino veritas

by bee_obsessed



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:19:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee_obsessed/pseuds/bee_obsessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just... Don't be so disracting!"<br/>“That's very mature. You know, I could very well go to my room now, but you need to understand...”<br/>“Then DO!”<br/>“Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you?”<br/>“I told you, you're distracting!” </p><p>***Tags Apply to complete work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock lets out a frustrated grunt that sounds vaguely like a “John, please!” 

“What?” 

John's leaning sideways against the kitchen counter. He's waiting for the kettle to click. 

“You're distracting” 

Silence. 

“But I'm not doing anything.” 

“Can't you go to another room?”. 

“I am in another room. See? Kitchen, living room.” he says gesturing at his surroundings. 

“Ah ah, very clever.” 

“Sherlock, I'm sorry but you can't expect me to just disappear. I'm your flatmate, and this place is not exactly Versailles. I shut up when you tell me to. I move like a shadow when I know you need to be alone. What else do I have to do?” 

“Just... don't be so distracting!” Sherlock shuts the book he has on his lap with unnecessary force and slams the thick volume on the coffee table. The laptop shakes at the vibration and John gives a deadly glare at his mad flatmate. Because of course it's his laptop Sherlock's using. 

“That's very mature. You know, I could very well go to my room now, but you need to understand...” 

“Then DO!” 

“Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you?” 

“I told you, you're distracting!” 

“I don't see how!” now John is on the angry side of annoyed. “A- I wasn't speaking, B- you don't even have a case now.” 

Sherlock sighs, his patience growing thin “I'm writing an article for the website. On the chemical analysis of foot prints. Determining soil composition using spectroscopic analysis on microscopical samples, to be precise. I still need to concentrate. And don't say Nobody reads your blog anyway." 

“All right, whatever. You still haven't answered my question. What's distracting you?” 

Sherlock sighs, his eyes scrutinise John's figure before he finally answers, spitting the words angrily. “Your hair. It's distracting.” 

“Why?” John drags out the word, genuinely confused, and ruffles his hair. “It's wet...” 

“How observant. Well, I just showered. So what's your point?” 

Sherlock shifts in his armchair, sitting up, as John, interested now, takes a few steps towards the living room, leaning back against the kitchen table. He crosses his arms and looks at him, waiting for an answer with a suspicious frown. 

Sherlock follows his movements like a cat, and now is staring at a vague point about John's chest.

“If you really need to know, your hair is distracting me not because it's wet, but because it's... rumpled. It's sticking out in a way that I find myself to have to describe as adorable, because I can't think of any other adjective. Me, I can't find another adjective and have to resort to 'adorable'. Do you see the problem, now?” 

John's eyes widen in surprise, amusement, and something entirely else. 

Sherlock patience is completely gone now. “Do you want to know what else, John? Your pyjama bottoms are definitely too low around your waist, because I can clearly see your Iliac Crest” the words are brisk and violent, as if they were insults.

He points at his waistband, and then starts to gesticulate as if to indicate every bit of John's body at once. “Then there is your t-shirt. It's old, from your pre-army days. You've stopped wearing it out of the house long ago, at least 10 years, but you love it, so you sleep in it. And the reason why you love it is because it fits you perfectly, you like how it looks on you. Now, I hate to break this to you, but the reason why it looks good is that it's definitely too small for you... with the bulk you've put on in Afghanistan. With the years it has adapted to the shape of your torso. And, quite frankly, it leaves nothing to the imagination. For god's sake, I can see your muscles twitch, even from here.” 

“And... well...” he adds looking away “your arms are also particularly distracting”. 

“Er... this is one of those times when I think you might have to explain exactly what you mean by what you just said because... well, because I'd say you're implying...” 

“You know I hate repeating myself and even an idiot would understand what I'm implying.” Sherlock meets his gaze for the first time and it's serious, there is no doubt what he's thinking, even though to anyone else he would still look just angry. But John knows better. This is not anger, this is different. 

John licks his lips involuntarily. He doesn't move. 

“For god's sake!” Sherlock bursts out as he sprints up from his armchair, and strides towards the kitchen. 

John doesn't move, but his arms uncross and his hands are gripping the table behind him, as if to get away, but not really. His body stands in a defensive but entirely open position. 

Sherlock's steps become more and more uncertain as he gets closer. He can't bring himself to look at John in the eyes. His jaw is set, his breath is uneven. He waits. 

Then his hands are on John's hips, his thumbs tracing the infamous iliac crest back and forth, his fingertips the only point of contact between them. John shudders at the touch of skin on skin. His breath is becoming ragged as well now, and his hands are gripping the edge of the table as one would hold on to a chunk of driftwood to save himself from drowning. 

“I'm sorry, I couldn't resist it” Sherlock whispers, voice trembling and embarrassed, but all John can't think now is Don't Stop. He says so with his body, hips canting forward to find the touch of Sherlock's body against his. Warm, solid and real. 

It's enough. 

Now Sherlock looks up. The question is unspoken but he can read John's answer is his eyes. Dilated pupils, pulse racing, shallow breath. A tacit understanding. Sherlock is still for moments that feel like days, but then he does it. He brings his lips to John cheek first, brushing lightly, not even a proper kiss, and the brushing brings him to the corner of John's mouth. Then finally their parted lips shift against each other in a deliberately slow caress. Still very careful, still testing. 

John pulls Sherlock's lower lip between his own, then worships his perfect cupid bow with delicate kisses. He is immediately overwhelmed. He doesn't stop to think, to ask himself if this is a good idea, or maybe he does for a split second but the answer is immediately clear. Because no, those lips on his are too soft and too full and juicy and exactly what he wants, and it's can't be a bad idea. Instead he grips the edge of the table so strongly his knuckles turn white, as Sherlock starts to kiss back. And his lips are parting for h now, and John lets his tongue do what feels natural, which is to invade Sherlock's mouth, who accepts it with a little moan. 

Oh God, a very sexy little moan and John's hands are in his dark curls now, keeping his face steady as he kisses more deeply, his tongue wanting to be everywhere at once. John is caressing that pale, wiry neck, running his fingertips over his jaw, and when he circles his thumb on the soft spot behind Sherlock's ear he feels Sherlock gasping and, finally, really letting go. 

An exasperated growl from Sherlock, very eloquent, awakens John's reason just long enough to tell himself I'm kissing a man. I'm kissing Sherlock. Is this what I want?

Not one fibre of his body seem to doubt that, as he twists their tongues together slowly. Sweetly. Have I always wanted him? I know I want to spend the rest of my life with him, I was already painfully aware of that. But... this? 

Sherlock's hands grip roughly at John's waist and start exploring his broad shoulders and chest, hands running over the very thin layer of t-shirt. Long fingers leaving goosebumps on John's skin, the worn cotton only highlighting the sensation. 

They keep kissing, with a passion that he wasn't aware Sherlock could harbour in himself. Sherlock is getting bolder now, and his tongue probes possessively into John's mouth, testing the different textures of his teeth, his palate and the root of his tongue. As if he is cataloguing everything for future reference. Being Sherlock, that's most likely what he's doing, John thinks, and a wide grin appears on his face. 

Sherlock smiles against his lips too. And John can't help wondering, why is Sherlock smiling? For a second he gets that creepy feeling that he's so familiar with, the feeling that the man is reading his mind. He's getting uncomfortable so he has to ask. “What are you smiling for?” Sherlock frowns and retreats enough to look at him “You smiled. I was smiling back”, he murmurs, a little unsure. 

Seeing Sherlock like this is absurd, John thinks. 

Is this the same man he's been living with all this time? His cheekbones are an healthy rosy colour, his hair is a mess, his mouth open and wet and his eyes sparkling. All of these revealing details. He, who is usually so careful not to show any emotion at all, is now wearing his heart on his sleeve. His composure is completely open. Every tiny movement, every breath is a declaration of intent, and betrays his desperate want. He's letting John in, completely. 

It's perfect. 

Then Sherlock stops kissing and takes a step back, a shocked look on his face. It takes John a moment to realise it's because his erection is now unmistakably poking at Sherlock's thigh. John blushes and starts to say something, but his words are silenced because Sherlock's mouth is back on his, and this time it's biting and plunging furiously. Sherlock's hand is tugging at the hem of his trousers now, and insinuating itself through short curls of pubic hair. 

John has to break the kiss to inhale sharply when Sherlock long fingers brush lightly against his cock. “Fuck” is all he can say. 

Then Sherlock is gone.

 

 

_To be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

It takes John a moment to understand what's happened. His eyes follow the man, as he takes a few tentative steps backwards, into the living room. He wriggles his hands and looks down as if the carpet was so particularly interesting. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other. Nervous, and very obviously so. 

John wants to say something, the words “I'm sorry” just there, ready to be said, definitely not because he's sorry, but because he's an Englishman, and an apology is always ready on his lips. But no sound comes out, he just stares at Sherlock with a perplexed face. 

But then nothing happens. Sherlock simply walks back to his armchair and goes back to whatever he was doing.

John exales and tries to calm down.

He retreats to his room without a sound.

He doesn't even try not to think about Sherlock's tongue when, later, he wanks.

***

It could have been nothing. The attraction that Sherlock felt once in a while. It could have been, if John Watson weren't so damn obvious.

Like the time Sherlock asks him to reach inside his pocket for his phone (probably Mycroft) and John goes for the trousers' pockets instead.

His fingers caress lightly the line between thigh and groin. Sherlock whimpers and stutters “Jacket”. John removes his hands and gets the phone.

Or another time, when Sherlock hears John groan in the kitchen and walks in curiously, to find the good doctor stretched against the counter, trying to grab a tin of beans on the highest shelf. Sherlock does what he usually does. He leans tall against the counter to reach for the tin. Only, usually John's hand's not resting possessively on the small of Sherlock's back.

Married to his work, isn't it clear enough?

Except John had said it's all fine and actually it was, all fine.

 

This had all started when he came back. John was starved for touch, he was lost and lonely. Sherlock would give him anything to make him right again.

They walked in the cold London winter from the latest crime scene. Sherlock had solved it with one look. It's the first post-case adrenalin high they share after three years.

As he hangs up his coat he ponders just how many times he had wished for this during those three years. The thoughts in John's mind are not much different.

John is already fumbling with the kettle. “Tea?” “How about some wine instead?” John nods and opens a bottle of red.

They nurture their wine for a while, pretending to pay attention to the telly.

“Why are you always touching me?” asked Sherlock, no more than to himself. “Er...” John frowns “Hadn't realised I did that. I'll stop.” Sherlock sighs “No, it's... fine.”

 

Sherlock stands, and walks up and down the room a few times, never once meeting his eyes. Then he picks up something from the bookcase and sits back in his armchair. Hastily, he produces a pill-case from the pocket of his dressing gown. John gets closer to look, and he's frowning as he tries to understand what's going on. 

Now Sherlock is filling a small black pipe with tobacco and... something. Green bits. His hands shake a bit. 

“Sherlock, is that...” “Yes” he answers, and his voice sounds way calmer than his demeanour would suggest he is. He strikes a match to light the pipe. He inhales and relaxes his muscles. 

“Why are you doing this?” John is looking at him with disbelief.

“I need it.” and Sherlock looks so serious that John believes him, even before the explanation. 

“I have spent my life learning how to be in control. My face, my body cannot betray me. I bluff, I act, it's my protection.” John sighs and slides into his armchair. He knows these things, but hearing Sherlock confess them is different. Sherlock has never been this forward with him, and it makes him light-headed, this blind trust. 

He sips his wine, and waits for the rest.

“Therefore” Sherlock continues, “it's very hard for me to let go. You see, there is a brick wall between my mind and the rest of the world, you should know that by now”. He takes another drag from the pipe “Of course I could pretend. Spontaneity is one of the easiest thing to feign.” 

“So... you need weed to... what exactly?” “I need it to be myself. For now at least, I do”. “I thought you were... above this. Sex, I mean”. “I'm not immune to sexual attraction. It's a weakness. If I ignore the symptoms long enough they will go away. Usually. With you, though, it was becoming impossible. And it's becoming a distraction I can't afford.” 

He hands the pipe to John but John is still. “Do this with me. Please.” His voice is a liquid purr, and John has to take a deep breath. Sherlock moves closer, sits on the coffee table and he smokes. He breaths out the smoke into John's mouth, wet lips barely touching. John coughs once.  
“You won't regret it, I promise. THC makes everything very sharp, and very clear.” 

“And it lowers inhibition.” “Exactly.” 

John nods, and he's ready to give in. He can't say no to Sherlock, not ever, and especially not now that he's asking like that, when that magical voice of his is so deep and breathy. So he takes the pipe and inhales deeply a few times before handing it back to Sherlock. 

As they keep smoking, John focuses on his reactions. It's been years since he's done this. His body feels heavy, but he's acutely aware of things, like he imagines Sherlock must be all the time. 

“Why do you keep weed? Just for sex? Wait, have you been having sex behind my back?” John blurts out, his brain not really filtering his words any longer, because of course Sherlock hasn't. “Sometimes I use it to think. It's my very last resort when a line of entirely plausible reasoning brings me to conclusions that I know to be wrong."  
John's not sure how he feels about this yet. Besides, at the moment he's smoking with him, so his standard sermon on the dangers of drugs would hardly be appropriate.

"When every deduction along the way is correct, but the results are wrong, and I get stuck in a loop. What I need then is inspiration... I suppose we could call it 'an illumination'.  
John nods. 

“For example, I had one just now” and John is about to ask what it is when he realises Sherlock is shedding off his dressing gown, and he's kneeling on the floor, between his parted knees. That sight, Sherlock in front of him, still looking up steadily into John's eyes, his parted wet lips. His pupils are so dilated he can barely see the blue any more. It's the sexiest, the most arousing thing he has ever seen in his life and he tries to commit it to memory, every detail of it. “Oh, fuck, Sherlock, you look... like nothing else I've ever seen”. 

Sherlock smiles and tugs down his pyjamas, until it falls in a messy heap around John's ankles. He splays his hands on John's thighs, drawing lazy circles. He looks up. “John, I've never done this before” he doesn't sound worried. He's just stating a fact. “Sherlock, you don't have to do it if you don't want to...” “Nonsense.”

It's that self-confident, assured tone John can finally recognize the man he's learnt to know, and he feels completely at ease. “I'm not a teenage girl you're trying to deflower on the back seat of your car. There's no need for that kind of talk. If I didn't want to do this, I wouldn't.” Sherlock is as loquacious as usual but his words are blurred. “I'm just telling you, I've never done this, so bear with me”. John chuckles and nods. 

The first touch of Sherlock's tongue is tentative, but it's enough to make John's cock twitch and swell fully. Then he licks wet strips on the underside, and John has to close his eyes and remind his lungs to do their job. Sherlock places open mouthed kisses along the shaft, before, finally, closing his lips around him. John whimpers and reclines his head back, resisting the urge to buck his hips. Sherlock's mouth is hot and so deliciously soft and, god, that tongue... 

John is only half-aware of the strangled noises he's making now. And at that Sherlock decides to linger on that spot that made John's toes curl, and the pleasure invades him like a dam breaking. 

Everything is very clear, highlighted. John is acutely aware of every nerve termination Sherlock is activating with his touch.  
Usually, even in sex, there's always that part of his brain that he can't shut down completely, the one that makes him plan the next move, consider what's bringing more pleasure to his partner. The one that prevents him from screaming his pleasure and refrain his moans. Noow that part is completely immersed in the moment with the rest of him. 

He understands why Sherlock needs the drugs. He can only imagine how difficult it must be for his hyperactive mind to shut the fuck up. All of this is much easier for both of them. There's not one rational or self-conscious thought to distract them from enjoying this as fully as humanly possible. 

Sherlock.

For a moment it's like he isn't even there. As if the only thing that exists is the pocket of black in front of John's closed eyelids. That black and his cock... but he immediately reminds himself that there is a reality outside that dark space of only feeling. Reality is that Sherlock is taking him in deeper now. John can't resist looking down because he needs to see this. That head bobbing rhythmically as Sherlock sucks him in earnest. 

John grips a fistful of curls, to change the angle and enjoy that view, amazing and completely absurd. Sherlock's gorgeous lips, tight around his cock. 

Sherlock chuckles at John's needy face, and the vibration that his laugh brings is almost too much, and John has to close his eyes again and stop looking if he wants to last.  
But he won't be able to last, really. Because now Sherlock is taking him in as deep as he can and... fuck, he's actually swallowing around him.  
John panics.  
“God” he groans “Sherlock...” Sherlock's answering moan is the most delightful sound, and brings the most delightful pleasure... and John feels his orgasm surging and he bucks his hips back, trying to get away. But there's not enough space to retreat completely, the pillow is already pressing against his back. 

He says, and it's more breath than sound, “Sher... get out of the way... Really, now... fuck!".  
Two low hums that sound unmistakably like a negative answer. And those two hums, the sound and the feel of them around his cock, are what bring John's over the edge. He comes, and he thinks there's a reason why they call this 'little death', because for a moment he sees black and feels like his body doesn't belong to him. This is so intense that he has an 'illumination' himself, and realises that all this pleasure, it can't be just the sex or the drugs. It must be the fact that it's Sherlock doing it. He knows what that means and he doesn't mind at all. 

He looks down, and Sherlock is working him through is orgasm, swallowing and licking him clean. John's knees are shaking and he lets himself collapse on the armchair like dead weight. As soon as he regains control of his limbs he cups Sherlock's face and brings it closer. His mouth tastes of himself, of copper and salt and smoke, but it's sweet and oh, delicious. 

They wait, shivering and panting against each other until they get their breath back. Then John slides down on the carpet. His hands grip Sherlock's back and lift him until he kneels up.  
They fit so well together, John thinks as he kneads Sherlock's backside and slides down his pyjamas. 

When John takes him in his mouth, Sherlock sighs loudly, and leans heavily on him, his hands searching for leverage in the armchair behind. And the angle is perfect, and it's even better now that John is half-lying on the floor.  
He doesn't know exactly what he's doing. All he knows is the texture of Sherlock's skin under his tongue is so interesting he needs to explore and taste everywhere he can.  
He swirls his tongue lazily. One hand is on Sherlock's back, encouraging, because he needs him closer, even though there's no getting closer than they already are. The other hand is tight around the base of Sherlock's cock, and leaves it only to give an experimental squeeze at his balls.  
Sherlock whimpers and moans without a trace of self-restrain. 

As John's mouth becomes steadier and quicker on his shaft, Sherlock can't help thrusting into the feeling.  
And John lets him, his hands groping possessively at his buttocks.  
He lets Sherlock set the pace.  
He wants to give this man whatever he needs.  
There's nothing he wouldn't do for him.  
They fall into a rhythm, and it's amazing, until Sherlock shudders and comes. 

Feeling Sherlock come apart in his arms is the best thing John has ever experienced.  
Even better than his own orgasm, if that's possible. 

It must be the drugs, he tells himself. 

The vertigo right now definitely is the drugs, and he has to lie down. 

The carpet is rough against his back, but it's fine because at least it's real. 

It cannot be a drug-induced hallucination, not with the roughness of the carpet and the compact hardness of the floor.  
It's too uncomfortable to be a fantasy. 

Sherlock moves the coffee table away and covers him with the throw blanket from the headrest of the armchair. 

Then he slides down next to John on the carpet, and their limbs just fit into each other somehow, in a way that would make even gravel comfortable... 

They curl around each other's bodies, gripping possessively at waists and shoulders. 

 

Look how we fit together John thinks again as he relaxes into Sherlock's arms. 

It's what Plato says. The whole creatures. Made of two people joined together. In the beginning of time, and Zeus split them up because he was jealous of their happiness. And could it be that this is what it means. Finding someone you just fit with. Because it feels like they are one thing. And they are from the Sun, aren't they? Wholes made of two men. 

“I would have been jealous of this, if I were Zeus.” 

And he must have said that out loud because Sherlock chuckles and purrs into his neck “You're stoned, doctor Watson.” 

But Sherlock knows what John is thinking about. Not unexpectedly. It takes him about 30 seconds to figure it out, but that one sentence is enough for him to read his train of thought. 

So he adds “But we always fit together, you know that, don't you. In life. All the time. It's just that... right now it's easier to see it.  
You know what they say... in vino veritas”.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: Feedback is very very very much appreciated. Negative feedback is absolutely welcome. If I'd better dedicate myself to model trains, or, say, fishing, I'd like to know. 
> 
> Repost from LJ with some changes.  
> 


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